


teach me the courage of stars (before you leave)

by chuuyyaa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, and oikawa likes suga, he also has some issues, oikawa is a space nerd (what's new), suga is rich and lovely, they like to explore, they're all in rome except for iwa-chan and a few others, university!au, volleyball is an issue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10056395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuuyyaa/pseuds/chuuyyaa
Summary: Oikawa expects his three months in Italy to be all about stars, art and good food; instead, it’s all about meeting a beautiful yet dangerous boy, bathing in champagne and possibly trying not to die because Suga is wild and Rome is evergreen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am so glad I was finally able to post this monster. It took me two months to get this done. Two months and a few mental breakdowns. I have a great concept for this. I hope I can get what I want.  
> I apologize for any mistake/weird word, English is not my main language! (Actually, Italian is eheh)  
> This whole work is inspired by an album series called "Atlas" by Sleeping at last. Every chapter is linked to a song belonging to that series. I strongly suggest you listen to it, because all the songs are so /awesome/.  
> Enjoy Oisuga. More Rome will come, hopefully soon.

_Now I bear little resemblance to the king I once was._  
_I bear little resemblance to the king I could become._  
_Maybe paper is paper, maybe kids will be kids-_  
_Lord, I want to remember how to feel like I did._

[(East - Sleeping at last)](https://www.google.it/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwj39_WA67jSAhXHuRQKHa8CDLgQtwIIJzAC&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D0tCSuduIXwQ&usg=AFQjCNGXkNC3PKaXVEoh8ZayahPLifBD3g&sig2=78oGL-VPWF5S_OpAzh2xHw)

 

The airplane lands on a fresh Sunday morning of April, one of those days in which the light is blinding, and hides behind a thin layer of clouds.

“ _Benvenuti_!” a metallic voice says. “Please enjoy your stay in Rome, and thank you for flying with us! The weather is lovely today, it’s twenty degrees outside. Hope you’ve enjoyed your flight, have a good day!”

Sitting between an old man with a laptop on his knees and a fashionable woman who did nothing but stare at her perfect manicure for the whole journey from Paris to Rome, Oikawa tries to stretch his back, silently cursing low cost flights and their uncomfortable seats.

He bends a little to straighten his jeans, and puts his hair back into place by shaking his head slightly. Around him, people are starting to stand from their seats and grab their small luggage. He stays where he is, waiting for the long line of impatient people to get out.

The woman beside him coughs to let him know that she wants to leave the small space they have been confined into for two hours, but Oikawa yawns dramatically and smirks a little to himself.

When he finally stands up to slide out of the row, the plane is half-empty and much less crowded, allowing him to take his bag from the shelf. He gathers the woman’s pink suitcase as well, passing it to her with a smug, angelic smile that goes completely ignored since she’s staring at her phone quite angrily.

“ _Grazie_ ,” she says shortly, and Oikawa recalls that means ‘thank you’ in Italian, although he imagined Italians saying it in a completely different way, all gestures and wide smiles.

When he finally steps out of the plane, he breathes deeply and watches as businessmen hurry towards the exit with their small briefcases and beige raincoats, hostesses laugh with each other in their tight dresses and eccentric hats, and big bags are placed on a circular rotating platform.

Oikawa turns his phone on and sends a small text to his dad and Iwaizumi (who, by the way, threatened to kill him if he didn’t text at every moment possible).

 

**From: Oikalien**

**To: Iwa-chan** **̴ , Father dearest**

 

_All good, me is in Rome!_

He puts his phone away and proceeds to find his ridiculously big suitcase, which flares like Daisy’s deck, bright green and obnoxious between dark, sober luggage. Oh well, Oikawa has never been humble in the first place.

As it turns out, it’s incredibly difficult to find a taxi in Rome, since there are at least twenty people on the pavement, waiting to get in a car and go wherever they have to be.

The cab he manages to find is called ‘taxi’, and the man driving it is way too tall for a car that small. He can’t speak English, which sends Oikawa in a momentary fit of panic, but apparently he understands that Oikawa is Japanese, that he is a student and he needs to go to the university campus.

The ride is one of the most uncomfortable situations Oikawa has ever experienced. The man keeps conversing in fluid Italian on the phone (Oikawa suspects that his accent is very strong, because he drawls his s’ and c’s), making the boy worry about his life; the radio in background makes a steady and annoying noise, not able to catch any station. Plus, the leather of the seats is consumed and stinky (not to mention, probably inherited from the mammoths era) and he’s desperately trying keep an enormous headache away.

Altogether, a microcosm reflecting hell.

If Oikawa was religious, he’d pray his divinity to let him out; right now, he’s just hoping at every turn that the uni dorm is close.

Oikawa is grateful when the cab reaches the college he is supposed to stay at, for he is able to finally get out of the smelly car, pay the driver a ridiculous amount of money and breathe Rome’s air properly for the first time.

It’s chill outside, since the sun is still hiding behind the clouds, and there’s a light spring-like breeze that ruffles Oikawa’s bed hair.

The boy takes his luggage inside the building, which has a baroque and extravagant façade, all curves and ornaments made of stone. The hall is gold and red, illuminated by bright, almost blinding lights; there’s a reception on the right, next to the entrance, and a big marbled staircase at the end of the room.

The lady behind the counter is nice. She smells like orchid and vanilla, and wears a fashionable pair of red Chanel glasses. She sports a Hermes foulard around her neck to hide her wrinkles, but there’s no sign of old age on her face. On the contrary, she looks awfully timeless, with a subtle, kind smile resting on her lips and a pair of big, shiny blue eyes.

She welcomes Oikawa warmly, speaking to him in English and greeting him with a well-pronounced “ _Konnichiwa_ ” the moment she spots him in the hall. Her name is Lucilla, she explains, and she’s the receptionist of the college. Any questions, requests or troubles, he shall report them to her and she will deal with them.

Lucilla hands him the keys to his room (number 68, third floor, left corridor) and a handful of brochures about the city and the university. Oikawa thanks her profusely, bowing to everything she tells him, and making her giggle.

“It’s not everyday you see a boy this polite,” she comments. “You’ll learn there are some… _problematic_ people living in this building. Hopefully, you won’t have to interact with them at all.”

Oikawa rewards her with his sheepish smile, all sweet eyes and dimples, and gathers his things, waving his hand to the lady.

“ _Arrivederci_ ,” he says, bowing again.

He crosses the hall and avoids all eye contact with the fellow students who come and go from the stairs. Oikawa puts his luggage in the silver, clean lift and pushes the third button, waiting for the doors to close.

Suddenly, a hand tries to keep them open and a clear, ringing voice says: “Wait, wait, wait!”

Oikawa pushes the ground button and blinks as he takes in the figure of a small, orange haired boy holding a big backpack on his shoulder and a MacBook in his left hand. It takes Oikawa twenty seconds to notice that the boy speaks Japanese, looks very out of breath and is, indeed, the smallest twenty-something years old he’s ever seen. _Chaos_.

“Sorry,” he tells the boy, running a hand through his hair, conscious of how they must be looking right now. Not that the orange head is any better, anyway.

The boy’s face lights up at the use of Japanese, and he shakes his head vehemently.

“Ah, don’t worry! Thank you for stopping! Lucilla would’ve chopped my head off if she had caught me,” he says, smiling widely and genuinely. “I may or may not have smeared her floor of mud and grass while coming back from practice a few nights ago, and I’ve been avoiding her ever since”.

Oikawa laughs, shaking his head.

“She does seem a bit strict. I suppose you’re one of the _problematic people_ in the building, right?”

The boy squirms a little, scratching his neck, embarrassed. “She said that?”

“Yep,” Oikawa answers, popping the p. “What floor, again?”

“Ah, third floor. It’s the transfer students’ floor, we’re all up there. We’re the only Japanese people around here. Well, there’s my roommate as well, but he’s an asshole, so he doesn’t count.”

Oikawa nods, pressing the third button again, and finally feeling the lift starting to go up. There’s a moment of silence, before the boy speaks again.

“Hinata Shouyou,” he says. “Twenty-one years old, from Miyagi prefecture but studying medicine in Tokyo. You’re new, right?”

He pauses, biting his lip.

“That was a stupid question. I could spot your suitcases from the moon…” his voice lowers then, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to joke around with a person he’s just met. Oikawa chuckles, though, and sees the immediate relief in Hinata’s eyes.

He studies the boy again, bowing his head to the side. Hinata looks raggedy, like he doesn’t really care about his appearance or at least doesn’t have enough time to. Oikawa can tell he’s one of those people that have a weird aura around themselves, one that you can generally feel, but never define. It’s a kind of trepidation, a savage passion burning bright and fiercely as a star, untamed.

Hinata Shouyou is a chaotic system, a walking paradox, small but powerful; he’s something very little, but he looks like he could shake the whole world and more. Oikawa thinks he’s worth exploring, because he’s an astronomer and, after all, it’s his duty to explore the unknown, but not now, with a twenty-two hours long flight and a strong desire to fall asleep on the spot weighing him down. Definitely not now.

“I’m from Miyagi as well. And I’m studying astrophysics in Tokyo,” Oikawa explains, holding back a yawn. “Oikawa Tooru. I’m twenty-three”.

The lift stops on the third floor, doors opening with a metallic sound. The corridors that appear in front of Oikawa are a miniature of the great hall, with the same lights and red carpets. On the walls, there are framed photos of old students, boards with lots of sheets hanged precariously on them, and a few paintings of landscapes. Hinata steps out naturally, jumping a little as he faces Oikawa and grins.

“Eh, really? What high school did you attend?”

And yes, this should be the part where Oikawa glides the question and says goodbye to Hinata Shouyou, whoever he might be, because avoiding his past is the only thing he’s good at (besides astrophysics, that is) and he really doesn’t want to remember.

“Seijou,” he says. It _should have been_ that part, but, apparently, Oikawa’s subconscious has different plans. Hinata’s eyes widen, but Oikawa stops him before he can open his mouth to let go the scream that is obviously building in his lungs.

“And this has been lovely, but I really need to find my bed, fall asleep and never wake up again. Catch you later, Hinata-chan.”

Oikawa hurries away, leaving a speechless Hinata in front of a closing lift, and mentally cursing himself for letting that information slip. Of course Hinata would know who he is; there is not a single living soul in the whole prefecture that wouldn’t know who Oikawa Tooru is and why his name was everywhere a few years ago.

However, he refuses to let his demons win, and with a deep sigh he reaches the room number 68, thankful to the stars and tired as a mug.

The room is surprisingly big, with two communicating areas and an acceptable bathroom. Oikawa crosses the room with long steps and collapses on the mattress, arms spread out and eyelids heavy from the lack of rest. He sighs again, this time from bliss, and in that very same moment, his phone rings. He feels like murdering someone.

“ _Moshi moshi?_ ” he says into the speaker, not even bothering to see who’s calling. He’s got a vague idea, anyway, and it might begin with an I and end with “wa-chan”.

“ _It’s me, Shittykawa, with a special question for you. What part of ‘call me when you land, you fucking idiot’ was hard to understand?”_

Oikawa smiles. “Hello to you, too, Iwa-chan! Yes, I’m doing just fine! Oh, Iwa-chan, I was starting to forget what your voice sounds like!”

“ _Cut the crap. I feel like dying because I stayed awake to wait for your call, I’m currently not taking any shit from Mr. Best-Setter-Of-My-Ass.”_

Iwaizumi’s voice sounds rough through the phone, and the line is disturbed, but Oikawa has never felt so much love for his best friend (well, except when he had actually been in love with him, but there’s no need to talk about that).

“Don’t call me that, you mean person,” he says, turning on his hip and staring at the window. “I’ve been busy meeting a beautiful receptionist and a chaotic boy with orange hair. I _was_ going to call you, but _then_ I met my bed and things escalated quickly. I’m sure you understand.”

“ _Alright, then, I’m sure you’ll understand why I’m about to tell you to fuck off.”_

“So rude, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi sighs into the receiver, and Oikawa feels him shuffling as if he’s changing his position.

“ _I won’t even pretend to care Oikawa. I feel like murdering someone.”_

Iwaizumi cannot know this, but there’s a delicate smile on Oikawa’s lips, the one that appears when he and Iwaizumi sync perfectly, the one so different from those dimpled, huge grins that hide everything he might be feeling.

“Is this because of Makki and Matsu’s study sessions?”

Iwaizumi snorts, making Oikawa feel all cosy inside. He loves it when he can amuse his best friend.

“ _Yeah, more like a making out session.”_

“Ew, gross.”

Iwaizumi hums in agreement. There’s a moment of comfortable silence, before Oikawa speaks up again.

“You know, I’ve just met a guy from Miyagi, what are the odds?”

“ _Only you, honestly. What’s he like?”_

“Chaotic,” he mutters. “You know, like a butterfly flapping its wings in Rome and causing a tsunami in Tokyo. Confused me a bit. He’s small.”

Iwaizumi is used to Oikawa’s nonsense, and that’s probably why he doesn’t comment on the explanation, opting for another question.

“ _Does he have a name?”_

“Hinata something,” Oikawa says. “He’s got a Japanese roommate and that makes us three in here. Haven't met the guy yet, though.”

“ _Mmmh, I think I knew a Hinata from the prefecture, but I’m not sure… there’s no way it’s the same person, anyway,”_ he comments.

“ _Tooru,”_ is what he says next, like a much-needed exhalation, which makes Oikawa jump. “ _I need to get off the phone because one, I’m already broke and it’s been five minutes, and two, I really need to get some work done.”_

“Yeah,” Oikawa whispers, bringing his knees to his chest. “Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. Thanks for putting up with me. I do miss you, you know?”

“ _Shut up, you idiot. Like I wouldn’t do worse for you. Right, I’m off then. Text me, yeah?”_

“Yup,” he says, and hopes Iwaizumi can feel the smile that accompanies his words. “Laters, Hajime.”

The line goes silent, and so does Oikawa.

 

Oikawa is thinking about his dinner when a loud knocking on his door wakes him up from his blissful thoughts of food and wine. He has already set up his room: all his clothes are in the drawers and in the closet, his covers are somehow arranged on his bed and he even put the weird cactus (courtesy of his co-worker Tsukishima) on the desk. It’s honestly the most ugly thing Oikawa’s ever seen, but it makes him think of home, and reminds him of the sweet smell that is always hanging in the air of the cafeteria where he works.

“Coming!” he says, since the knocking hasn’t stopped. Opening the door, he takes in the figure of two boys. One of them is Hinata, sporting a big smile on his face and a volleyball under his arm; the other looks much more gloomy, like he’s been forced to come as well. His hair is dark and shiny, as well as his eyes, and he’s almost as tall as Oikawa; for some reason, he looks familiar.

They look weird together, but there’s a certain chemistry in the air that he can’t quite describe, like they’d probably be very different people if they didn’t know each other. Oikawa has always been proud of his ability to read people, but these two seem to have blurred edges, and Oikawa can’t really tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Oikawa-san, good evening!” Hinata says cheerfully, making the other boy narrow his eyes.

“Oh, hey Hinata-chan. Drop the honorific, please, you make me feel way older than I am!”

Hinata’s eyes are sparkling with happiness, looking like they hold fires and blinding stars.

“Okay, then, Oikawa! Uhm, we were wondering if you’ve had dinner already…” he says, his voice lowering towards the end of the sentence.

“I haven’t,” Oikawa tells him. Then he turns towards the other boy and smiles his friendly smile. “You must be Hinata’s asshole roommate, right?”

The gloomy boy blushes, his ears going red and his eyes throwing daggers at Hinata’s head.

“I’m Kageyama Tobio” he mutters, glancing at the floor. “I’m killing you in your sleep tonight, you stupid dwarf.”

Oikawa probably shouldn’t have heard that, if the angry whisper is anything to go by, but Oikawa he does, and giggles, making Kageyama blush even harder. He appears more human, all flustered and faking anger like that.

“Don’t mind, don’t mind!” he chuckles. “I’m sure Hinata here meant well.”

Hinata sniggers, ducking his head to avoid Kageyama’s slap, and focuses his attention on Oikawa once again.  
“So, will you have dinner with us? We have practice afterwards, but you can go home if you’re tired!”

Hinata’s proposal is tempting; Rome is big and they are the only two people Oikawa knows, and he doesn’t want to wander around on his own. God knows he has a shitty orientation sense.

“I’m taking up your offer, Hinata-chan,” he tells the orange boy with his signature dimpled smile. “I’ll get dressed right away. Come in, if you want.”

Oikawa goes back inside, and waits until Kageyama has closed the door. “Make yourselves at home.”

He goes to open the top drawer and looks for a clean t-shirt. He settles on a dark brown cotton shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans and his furred leather jacket. As he goes to the bathroom, he leaves the door half-opened and raises his voice to speak with his guests.

“So, Kageyama, what are you studying?”

There’s a long pause before Kageyama’s voice, a bit muffled, answers to his question. “I’m a vet student.”

Hinata speaks up, while Oikawa is doing his hair.

“He’s been to Africa twice this year! He’s good at what he does!”

Oikawa peeks from the bathroom door, eyes wide.

“Wow, Kageyama, you’re studying wild animals?”

Kageyama, red as a pepper, nods. “Elephants mostly. They’re better than dogs.”

Oikawa laughs lightly, stepping back inside and resuming his useless fight against his bangs. “Yes, I’m sure they are.”

Another minute of silence passes before Kageyama’s voice reaches Oikawa again.

“You know, I was your _kouhai_ in middle-school.”

Oikawa freezes.

He tries to register the boy’s words, blinking stupidly at himself in the mirror, hands still up in his hair.

Middle school feels like centuries ago; it’s so far away from now, it reminds him of the Oikawa of the past, so different from the present one. He attempts to remember Kageyama’s face, squinting his eyes and biting his lip in the process. He felt a familiar feeling in the moment he saw the other boy, but even now, he can’t remember who on Earth he was.

He must have been silent for some time, because Kageyama is speaking again, bringing him back to reality.

“Oikawa-san?”

“Ah, yes, _pardon_. I was trying to remember your face but I just can’t. Did I tutor you?”

Oikawa gives up on fixing one last bang, and goes back to his bedroom. The two friends are sitting on his empty desk, hands resting in their laps. Hinata is exploring the whole room with his gaze, while Kageyama’s deep, dark eyes are staring directly at Oikawa. His face is serious, and it feels like he doesn’t smile very often, but right now there’s a smirk on his face, like he’s amused by Oikawa’s words.

“Well, if you include teaching me how to serve and set a ball, then yes, you tutored me.”

And it clicks. There it is, a buried memory emerges from the abyss Oikawa has created in his mind, fast and sharp. He remembers his old self, showing a little scruffy boy how to serve. He remembers Iwaizumi being able to catch that, because they’d been practicing together since they were three years old, and he remembers Kageyama’s bright astonished face. He remembers feeling quite jealous of the boy’s ability, and he remembers the bitterness in his voice when he told him he couldn’t teach him anymore.

“Oh god, you’re Tobio- _chan_ ,” he exclaims, making sure to stress the honorific – nasty move, but one does what he can.

“You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you?” Oikawa’s question comes out naturally, like there’s not a rage inside his mind, caused by the usual we’re-talking-about-volleyball-and-we-don’t-like-it alarm. He lowers his face just a bit, staring at his shoeless feet, hoping to look like he’s just deciding on what sneakers he should wear and not like he’s holding back tears of panic.

“You seem to have changed as well, Oikawa-san” Kageyama’s voice is dead serious, and in this precise moment Oikawa realizes that _he knows_. It’s only natural, since they live in the same prefecture and his name was on every local newspaper, but this doesn’t make it any simpler. Oikawa is not ready to talk about that with a complete stranger; all he sees is still red, and all he feels is pain.

“I couldn’t believe you were actually here when Hinata told me,” he goes on, clenching his hands together. “I’ve always looked up to you. I even came to see one of your matches at Seijou.”

Oikawa’s head raises up a bit. His expression is a mixture of different things: there’s a smile on his lips, but his eyes hold thunderstorms.

“Which one?” _Please don’t say Shiratorizawa, please don’t say Shiratorizawa,_ please _do not say Shiratorizawa._

“The one against Shiratorizawa.”

Fuck.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I did.”

Kageyama avoids Oikawa’s gaze, instead choosing to stare at the wall behind him. He stays quiet for a moment, deep in thoughts, and Oikawa feels something tugging at his insides, like it’s trying to get his attention and whisper a secret. _This is the boy who tried to overshadow you. He pities you right now._

What is Kageyama Tobio? Not a black hole; he’s fairly sure Hinata can get him to shine, or they wouldn’t be friends at all. Underrated, shining of a light that is not his own, always showing the same expression. Kageyama is a satellite, and not a small, useless one. If Hinata is the sun, then Kageyama is the moon: he doesn’t orbit around the small boy, but he wouldn’t be seen if it wasn’t for him.

He was different, back then; if Oikawa had to define the middle school Kageyama, he’d say he was just a lonely asteroid, not sure where to go or what to do, at the mercy of gravity, without a purpose.

“I am really sorry about what happened to you, Oikawa” is what Kageyama says next.

Oikawa breathes deeply, trying to maintain his unbreakable façade. He expected Tobio to bring that up at some point, but then, he also thought he’d be ready for that moment. He clenches his fists at his sides and leans against the wall.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” he asks, flashing his dimples and hoping desperation is not showing in his eyes. Hinata scratches his head, making his hair even messier than the usual, and inhales sharply before speaking.

“Right. I don’t know the details, and I don’t really care, to be honest. Let’s get some dinner, yeah?”

“Yes,” Oikawa sighs, stepping forward to pat Kageyama’s shoulder. “Let’s go eat. Don’t dwell in the past, Tobio-chan. What’s done is done.”

Kageyama, on his part, doesn’t look convinced at all, and Oikawa knows why.

He expected shouts, maybe a few insults, decorated with Oikawa’s famous sarcasm and unexpected jokes.

He didn’t expect resignation and exhaustion.

Oikawa doesn’t care. He’s done trying to keep up something that he doesn’t recognize himself in anymore. Hell, he was done being a setter a long time ago. That’s why he smiles – with his eyes – and grabs his jacket, after putting on his favourite pair of Stan Smiths, gesturing Hinata to get out and lead the way.

“I’m expecting pizza, Hinata-chan!”

Hinata laughs, and it’s like seeing little explosions of joy erupting from the surface of a star.

“You’re on it, mate!”

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

On day eight, Oikawa has understood three things so far.

 _One_ , Italian people are not all about pizza, pasta and mandolin (as his course mate Gabriele has profusely underlined); apparently, they’re also not as loud as the world claims, but then, he’s got a different opinion about that since he met Gabriele. He is twenty-three (“and _a half_ ”), and he’s been _very_ friendly ever since he sat down next to Oikawa in class and tried to act all smug about being able to speak Japanese. Once Oikawa told him that no, he wasn’t that good, Gabriele had stuck to English mixed with Italian, “because you need to learn my language, as well, _tesoro_ ”.

He’s got a mop of blond, curly hair, brown eyes and a sea of freckles kissing his face all over his nose and cheeks. He’s not from Rome, either, but he’s lived there for three years now, and shares his apartment with another Japanese guy.

“I seem to attract you lot,” he explains. “I mean, I _am_ beautiful, but you Asian people need to stop this!”

Oikawa restrains himself from pointing out that it was _Gabriele_ to talk to him first. He suspects Gabriele is too flamboyant and spontaneous to care.

Gabriele plays the guitar and sings in a band, and, apparently, they’re quite famous in Italy, since they’ve recorded an album and right now they’re taking a break after their last tour. He is a quantum jump, all smiles and loud voice, but there’s something sinister in his eyes, something that reminds you of why electrons are negatively charged.

 _Two_ , Hinata and Kageyama seem to be _everywhere_ he goes, and he’s half convinced they’re stalking him at this point. They’re nice, though, and they’re good company in the evenings, when they’re not busy with practice. They play in a small volleyball team they created, with other uni students. Hinata has tried to invite him several times, enough to make Oikawa lose count, but he’s always refused. Neither of them was surprised.

 _Three_ , he really needs to find his way through Rome, because he got lost no less than _eight_ times in two days, and he’s earned enough smirks from Kageyama to last him a lifetime.

Oikawa is in the library, borrowing the books he still has to buy, when Gabriele plops down next to him and “I’ve had a great idea,” says, watching Oikawa with a mischievous smile as he holds his head in one hand with his elbow propped up on the table.

“Not sure I want to hear that,” Oikawa says, unbothered by the revelation. Gabriele rolls his eyes, huffing.

“ _Simpatia portalo via!”_ he exclaims, sticking his tongue out at him. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You don’t need to know. Just hear me out, yeah?”

Oikawa looks up from the book he’s reading and stays silent, letting the boy know that yes, he’s listening. There’s no way he’d be able to ignore the guy, anyway.

“Right, I know you need to learn your way around the city, and I know _I_ need a distraction from coursework, so I thought why don’t we take two birds with one stone?”

The smile on Gabriele’s face is broad, honest and sly at the same time. He looks like he’s ready to explode when Oikawa least expects it.

“Uhm, not following, sorry,” he says, closing the book with resignation.

“We’re going on a bus tour, _ovviamente_!” the Italian boy says. “So you can see the city and stuff, you know?”

It’s not a terrible idea. Bus tours are the easiest and quickest way to see a big city, even if they just cover the main touristic sites, and it’d be nice for Oikawa, too, to finally get out and explore.

“What does _ovviamente_ mean?” he asks first, not bothering to answer or react at Gabriel’s proposal.

“You’re missing the point, Tooru!” Gabriele sounds exasperated as he bangs his head on the table and gains a few dirty looks thrown in his general direction. Oikawa chuckles, fishing out his phone and checking it. There are three texts from Iwaizumi, and one from his father. Ignoring them, Oikawa clears the notifications and puts his phone down.

“Isn’t it, like, tourism at its finest?” he asks genuinely, leaning back on his chair.

“Well, yeah, but it’s the fastest way. I’ve got plenty of time to take you to the real places, anyway.”

Gabriele looks sure of himself, with his thumb up and his flashy (and a bit creepy) smile still in place. “C’mon, it’s gonna be fine!”

“Yeah, alright… _va bene._ Did I say that correctly?”

He has, if the grin on Gabriele’s face is anything to go by.

“Sounds weird coming from you” is what he says. Oikawa wavers his hand in front of his friend’s face.

“Hush, you pizza boy.” Oikawa peeks at Gabriele’s face, whose features change immediately to a scary expression.

“I told you we…”

“I know,” Oikawa interrupts him, patting his shoulder. “I just enjoy seeing your angry face.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He’s not wrong. Oikawa remembers being called that in multiple occasions, and not only by Iwaizumi (who’s an exception, and is probably the only one who can say it with rights). He recalls players on the volleyball ground muttering to each other about “that asshole setter”, and he remembers feeling sinisterly proud in those moments. Those insults were the proof that he was really good at what he did. Not hearing them anymore was (and still is, even if he won’t ever say it out loud) one of the most painful and twisted experiences of his life.

“Yeah,” Oikawa’s voice is soft; he knows he must sound nostalgic right now, he can read it in Gabriele’s eyes, but he doesn’t stop himself for once, because he’s living in another country, talking with different people and generally is very far away from all the voices and the whispers and the sorrow.

“People have told me that before.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

The moment he steps on the tour bus, Oikawa thinks he must be mad to go on a ridiculous touristic trip with a boy he barely knows. However, as Gabriele throws his arm around his shoulder and offers him a headphone, he relaxes into his seat and thinks that, in the end, there could be worse scenarios. He could be stuck with _Kageyama_.

Oikawa sighs when the bus starts his journey and looks outside, watching the people walking fast on the sidewalks, not looking at each other, busy with their phones. He’s used to this: Tokyo is full of frenetic people wearing grey suits and a frown on their faces, or lousy tourists queueing to see the Tower. All cities are the same, all places have people who forgot why they should look at the sky, sometimes.

Gabriele hums along the Italian song that’s currently flowing throw the headphones, his right calf resting on his left knee and his foot dangling.

“For your information, we’re currently listening to one of my songs. You can tell me how awesome it is when it’s over!”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, nudging him with his elbow.

“Why, so humble, Gabri-kun, honestly, I’m surprised people don’t praise you wherever you go!” Gabriele doesn’t bother replying, opting for turning up the volume and smiling mellifluous.

A voice fills the bus, welcoming the few people on it warmly.

“Welcome on board!” it says. “Our first stop will be the Pantheon. If you wish to change the language, please click on the screen in front of you and select your favourite! Our guide will talk to you through the journey, following the map you were given at the entrance. We hope you have a nice journey!”

A couple of old men sitting behind them fumbles with the screen, speaking fluent and quick French. Gabriele huffs when the same metallic voice begins explaining about old monuments and greek-ish temples, and Oikawa smiles at the impatient boy. Quantum jump, indeed.

The city structure is not difficult; it’s like the Romans built their city following the stars in the sky: every street is parallel to another, like a reticulate, not different to the one Oikawa studies on his maps.

The two boys give up on following the explanation, opting for Gabriele’s sex playlist (“I’m telling you, Oikawa, the girls go _crazy_ for this shit”) instead. He finally decides to read his texts, which have multiplied in the meantime.

 

 

 **From:** **Father Dearest**

**To: Oikalien**

Have a good day, son.

 

**From: Iwa-chan**

**To: Oikalien**

 

Hey Trashykawa

 

I’m having scones today (Makki says hi)

 

And I don’t know why I’m texting you but our flat has never been quieter

 

Any chances you want to stay in Rome longer?

 

Joking. Maybe.

 

 

Oikawa chuckles, replying a single “asshole” to his best friend, and ignoring his father’s text. Gabriele is peeking at his phone, and he has a frown on his face.

“Can you really read that shit?”

“That shit is _my language_ , pizza boy. You better watch your mouth.”

Gabriele shakes his head, looking away towards the window.

“I need to introduce you to my flatmate. He’s also very proud of that cacophonic language of yours.”

“It’d be two against one. You sure you’re ready for that?”

The blond boy laughs and pats Oikawa’s knee.

“You need to meet him first. You’d be surprised, I assure you.”

Oikawa hums in response and goes back to sightseeing the city, trying to understand the streets arrangement and the path they’re following. The city is overwhelming, and perspire history, blood and glory; it’s timeless, even if the people and the landscape have changed deeply, drastically.

Oikawa doesn’t know how much he stays on the bus before it happens; they are going around Piazza Navona, slower than ever because of the traffic and the crowd of tourists, when Oikawa sees him.

He’s walking with his hands buried in his leather jacket, and the wind goes through his silver hair, making them messy. He doesn’t look from this world. There is a soft line gracing his lips, something like the shadow of a sly smile, and his features are soft, harmonious. He doesn’t look bothered by the people who bump into him as they messily walk in a hurry; actually, he doesn’t look like the world affects him in any way.

Oikawa thanks all the stars for the slowness of the bus as he stands up, making his headphone fall into Gabriele’s lap, and cranking his neck to get a better look on the boy. Suddenly, the silver-haired angel stops in his tracks, fishing out his phone from the pocket of his creamy-coloured jeans and frowning at the screen.

Oikawa is breathing fast. He knows it for a fact, because he feels his heart pounding in his chest and Gabriele’s eyes watching him, confused. The bus is approaching its stop, driving further and further away from the boy, and Oikawa _is not breathing_.

“I’m getting off,” he mutters.

Gabriele tries to stop him by saying something like “What the hell, Oikawa, you can’t just jump off a bus!” but he doesn’t listen, instead opting for running down the bus corridor and the stairs, pushing the stop button on his way. He jumps off before the bus has stopped completely, stumbling a bit when he lands on his feet. There’s a familiar pain in his knee, which is probably cursing him in multiple languages right now, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _let_ himself care and runs, runs faster than he probably should.

Gabriele, from the window, watches him go.

“You’re mad, Tooru,” he shouts.

Oikawa walks backwards as he crosses the road, and smiles broadly at Gabriele, thumbs up and a hint of craziness in his eyes. He hears multiple cars honk the horn at him, and a few men shouting meaningless words in Italian, but he ignores them and reaches the other side of the square, panting heavily, hands on his knees, hearing the blood pulse in his head.

Oikawa raises his head and sees the boy walking in circles while talking on his phone; the frown still hasn’t left his face. He’s shaking his head as he looks up to the clouds and the pale grey sky.

Oikawa turns around and sees the bus driving away, but no sign of Gabriele. He probably couldn’t be bothered to get up. His phone rings, though, and as he answers, a flow of insults much similar to those he earned a moment before when he crossed the street overwhelms him.

“ _Tooru, sei un idiota._ What the fuck, mate? _No, davvero_ , what the fuck?” Gabriele’s voice sounds more amused than angry, but Oikawa admires him for trying.

“I got the feeling that you were weird as fuck the moment you told me I looked like a crazy electron, but this is _worse._ _Imbecille_ ….”

Oikawa waits patiently until Gabriele is finished with his rant, and doesn’t take his eyes off the beautiful boy, who looks even more crossed than before.

“What now? Are you able to go back or do I have to come and pick you up?” Gabriele sounds calmer now, but he’s still breathing quite fast. “You Japanese people need to stop being so savage, honestly…”

“I’ll ask around. I have my phone. Don’t worry too much,” Oikawa answers, making sure to step closer to the boy at the same time, and trying to look very casual. He fails, probably.

“Tooru. You realize you’ve never been out there before, right?”

Oikawa huffs. “Always so fussy, Gabri-kun. I’ll text you if I lose my way, yeah? I need to go now.”

Gabriele sighs deeply on the other end of the receiver. “Right, okay. I can’t believe you actually jumped off a bus  because you saw _a boy._ I’m gonna write a song about you.

“Make me look very pretty, alright?” Oikawa retorts, still breathing heavily. He looks at Angel Boy, meeting his gaze just for a second. Breathing is such a _pain_.  

“Come to my place later, yeah? I’ll text you my address, wonderboy,” Gabriele says, half-laughing.

“I’ll see you later, then! Be ready to come and pick me up in a dark corner of Rome’s slums! Bye!”

He doesn’t let Gabriele reply and closes the call, sighing. He looks around, trying to remember which way the bus took to get there, and he miserably fails.

“No, _Mother,_ I don’t! I told you, I’m just fine with this flat, I don’t need… yes. _Yes, Mother_. No. Okay, I’ll get back to you, alright?”

Angel Boy is still talking, his voice reaching Tooru’s ears. And it’s pure. It’s limpid, delicate, and yet it _burns_ , there’s anger in his tone and waves of adrenaline intertwined in-between that transparent sound. His voice reminds Oikawa of mercury: liquid, yet quite stubborn, and _silver_ , sparkling and dangerous. It matches his features quite well: Oikawa could portray the boy just by listening to his voice. He looks slender, standing on his feet with nonchalance, even if there’s a bit of stiffness around his shoulders; he’s the most elegant creature Oikawa has ever seen and that’s when it hits him. Gabriele _is_ right, and he _is_ quite mad for getting off a bus just because he saw a pretty boy on the street. But he’s worth the jump, and worth the staring, and Oikawa could be satisfied just by looking at him all day.

“I’m not being insolent, Jesus Christ, I’m _late to class_ and you’re keeping me from getting a decent education, _Mother_. I’ll call you back. Bye.”

He doesn’t look like he’s late to class as he sighs at the screen of his phone, before putting it back in his pocket. He turns around, and spots Oikawa staring shamelessly at him. The people around the two of them don’t stop, they’re still walking and bumping into his shoulder but Oikawa watches the boy and the rest become a blur of colours and movement. The boy smiles a bit, and _oh god,_ he’s either approaching Oikawa or he just needs to go that way. Oikawa, on his part, feels like he’s in a bloody soap-opera. Not that he minds it, shall that be clear.

It’s only when the boy stops in front of him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, hair mussed by the wind, that Oikawa breathes deeply. Now that he’s closer, Oikawa spots a beauty mark under his left eye and thinks that it should be illegal to look that beautiful. He also thinks that he’d gladly trace constellations from that dot, but there’s no need to say it out loud. Yet.

“Hello, stranger,” the boy greets in English. “You look a bit lost. Do you speak English?”

Oikawa stutters with his words, mentally cursing himself for this weakness of his of forgetting how to articulate in front of pretty boys.

“Ye- N-no, I was… I’m Jap-Japanese. I speak English. I mean I’m Japanese but I speak English and… yeah, I should probably stop talking.” He finishes his smart speech with a loud sigh.

The angel cracks a lopsided smile, and wobbles on his heels.

“Don’t stop. Your voice is very… unique. Are you lost?” he asks again, this time in his own language. Oikawa curses himself _harder_.

“Uhm, I kind of don’t know where I am right now, and don’t know how I got here, so yeah, I suppose you could say I’m lost.”

That was terrible. That was absolutely embarrassing and Oikawa waits for the boy to turn around and leave him there, embarrassed and ashamed of himself. Instead, he laughs, his tongue between his teeth, eyes crinkled at the sides. He’s beautiful.

“You don’t know how you got here?” he repeats, a hint of incredulity in his voice.

“I was on a bus, and then I jumped off because… because it was a tour bus and it was getting cramped and I’m quite claustrophobic.” Nice move, Oikawa. Smooth.

Until it isn’t, because the boy is frowning and scanning him from head to toe. “Tourist?”

Oikawa shakes his head vehemently. “Transfer student. Got caught up in a stupid idea my course mate got.”

“Oh,” the boy says.

He raises his eyebrows and scans Oikawa’s figure up and down. A faint smile graces his lips, more like a smirk, and then he extends a hand elegantly.

“Sugawara Koushi,” he introduces himself, looking expectantly at Oikawa, who blinks twice before realizing that the boy has told him his name and is waiting for an answer. Lovely, Oikawa.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he says. He holds Sugawara’s hand, which is dry and warm and a little callous, like it has written too much words on paper. Oikawa feels like he should say something, like a smart remark or a faint compliment, _anything_ really, but he’s at loss for words as he keeps staring into Sugawara’s eyes. He doesn’t blush, that’s just not his style, but he’s pretty sure he’s gaping right now, and he feels like an idiot. He probably is an actual idiot. Iwaizumi would agree.

“So, what do you do in Rome, Oikawa-san?”

The question reaches Oikawa’s ears immediately, but it takes him a few seconds to understand it. Angel Boy is asking about him. He’s _actually_ making conversation. Oikawa feels like throwing himself off a bridge. It’s times like these in which he misses his old self; he would have known how to act.

“Just Oikawa is fine. I’m studying Astrophysics,” he said. “Also getting the fuck away from Japan, but that’s irrelevant, really.”

Sugawara’s eyes sparkle with knowledge, his gaze hugging Oikawa and whispering, _I know what you mean_.

“I see.” His eyes are still scanning Oikawa; Sugawara wets his lips, biting the lower one a little, and shifts on his feet. Oikawa asks all the stars to help him because he’s pretty sure that Angel Boy is checking him out; either that, or he’s just very curious.

“How long have you been in Rome, Oikawa?”

Oikawa puffs his cheeks, kicking a small stone with his shoe. “Just a few days. Enough to meet two crazy Japanese volleyball players and a megalomaniac Italian singer-songwriter with a thing for bus tours.”

Sugawara giggles. He actually _giggles_ , all sparkles and crinkled eyes, but what he asks next is not quite as charming as his smile.

“Volleyball players? Do you play together?”

He must have noticed the look on Oikawa’s face, because he frowns once again, and presses his lips together in a tight line. “Sorry. Wrong question, right?”

“What? No, it’s fine. We don’t- we don’t play together. I mean t-they do, but I… It’s been a while since I played, yeah.” Oikawa knows he doesn’t sound convinced, or chippering as he’d like, but that’s the best he can manage at the moment. He also doesn’t mean to sound as bitter and sad as he does. He doesn’t _want_ to sound like that; he just wishes volleyball would stop haunting his life as much as it does now.

Sugawara smiles once again, and this time it’s sympathetic, his hazel brown eyes staring right into Oikawa.

“Are you in a hurry?” he asks, biting his lip and fidgeting with something in his pockets. Oikawa shakes his head.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he answers, opening his arms in a dramatic way.

Angel Boy – no, _Sugawara Koushi_ smiles, steps forward and inclines his head to the right.

“Have coffee with me, then.”

Oikawa stops dead in his tracks and stares.

He just stands there, blinking creepily, because he must have heard something else. He must have misunderstood for there isn’t a single reason why a pretty boy who doesn’t know him at all would ask him out. And yet he looks like he’s waiting for something that should be an _answer._

“Alright,” Oikawa breathes out, his voice coming out strangled.

He follows Sugawara down the street, half-listening as he blabbers about coffee and the perfect place, half-staring alternatively at him and at the city. The boy looks totally meddled with the place, walking fast and sure as he takes Oikawa off the main road and into the smaller streets of Rome. There are people everywhere, looking down from their balconies and greeting each other in a hurry. Angel Boy turns around sometimes, to make sure that Oikawa is still following him, and rewards him with a smile every time.

Oikawa walks fast, hurrying to reach the boy, and blurts out a question.

“How about you, Sugawara?”

Angel boy turns his head to give him a lopsided look.

“Suga is fine. What about me, though?”

Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, mentally cursing himself yet again. He really needs to learn some eloquence.

“I mean, what do you do in Rome?”

Suga looks ahead, raising his chin slightly; his eyes are sparkling.

“I’m a lit student. Meaning I’m both lit and studying literature,” he says in a very serious tone, not giving away even a smile.

Oikawa huffs.

“That was a terrible joke. Here I am, deciding against my better judgement to have coffee with a total stranger and _yet_ I discover he has an awful sense of humour. I’m not sure I want to speak to you any longer.”

Suga rewards him with a grin that speaks of galaxies and nebulosae. Oikawa is so, very screwed.

They stop in front of a tiny café called “Noir” (which, in Suga’s opinion, is a bit antithetic, considering where they are right know; Oikawa laughs and holds the door open for him). The place is cosy, not much bigger than the shop he works at in Japan, and it’s full of leather armchairs and small wooden tables. The light is soft, and comes mostly from wide framed windows sporting little plants in front of them. There is a low noise coming from the coffee machine and the people who are sitting and chatting, coming and going without ever stopping. The two boys luckily find a place to sit in the very far corner of the shop. Suga gets up before Oikawa can even fish out his wallet.

“None of this, Oikawa. Just tell me what you want to drink, yes?”

Oikawa quickly recovers from his surprise (which, he suspect, was very badly hidden) and smiles up at Suga. God, what an angel.

“I’ll leave the choice to you. Nothing too sweet, maybe,” he adds. Suga’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and it’s clear that he’s up to something. Oikawa thinks he could be up to anything he wanted and he’d probably follow him, to heaven or hell.

As Suga leaves, going to the counter, Oikawa stares shamelessly once again. He looks like the sun itself as he speaks to the barista, his smiles all teeth and no tongue, but there’s something else, something much bigger than a yellow giant, something that Oikawa cannot recognize yet. Suga’s whole figure shines in the sunlight coming from the windows, and his hair reflect the light, making it look like he has an actual halo around him.

Oikawa looks around, in fear of being caught staring _again_ , and observes the people around him. Sitting not too far from him, two girls are sipping hot chocolate; a laptop stand between them on the table, and one is showing the other something on the screen.

“Do you think I should buy this one? It’s very expensive, but if I eat noodles for a month I think I can make it!” one says. The other girl looks pondering as she observes whatever the other wants to buy, and then she shakes her head.

“It looks lousy, _Gesù_ ; it’s hideous, Marta” she comments while carefully placing her mug on the table.

Marta whines loudly, snatching the laptop from her friend’s hands.

“I _know_ , but it’s Prada, alright? It’s a must-have!”

Oikawa has understood the general concept, catching words like _Prada_ and _costoso_.

His attention shifts on an old, quite fat man all dressed in brown. Like, _every_ shade of brown. His trousers are light brown, almost grey, and the colour of his jumper is quite similar, only darker. His jacket (made of velvet and very old looking) is louder, but stil _very_ brown.

The man is muttering to himself about something he read in the art book that stands opened on the table, a fuming cup of tea next to it.

Before Oikawa can catch what the guy is saying, Suga is back, a comet that appears suddenly, slamming into Oikawa’s view with fierceness and brightness.

“I hope you like cinnamon spiked coffee as much as I do, ‘cause I was trying to act cool but I’m actually pretty lame when it comes to drinks. Can’t function without black coffee in the morning, though.”

Oikawa laughs shortly, the smile still lingering on his lips as he scrunches up his nose and “He’s got flaws, too!” exclaims, his eyes following the reactions on Suga’s face.

The boy is _blushing_. Tooru feels like tearing time and space apart, and gift the universe to him. Someday, perhaps.

“Don’t worry too much, Suga- _chan_. I’m alright with anything but milked tea, so you’re safe for now. Thanks for treating me, by the way.”

Angel Boy (yeah, _alright_ , he’s called Sugawara, Oikawa _knows_ that) rewards him with a surprised and amused look.

“I hate milked tea as well. It’s an abomination to mankind.”

“ _It is_ ,” Tooru cries out, sitting straighter on the old armchair. “And yet people keep sinning. I hate this corrupted society.”

“Oh, you’d know about sinning, wouldn’t you, Oikawa?” Suga says, and just _where_ has the whole I’m-a-heavenly-creature-sent-to-bless-humanity façade gone? All Oikawa can see and _hear_ is pure evilness.

“You have no rights to make assumptions about me, Suga-chan. You don’t even know my phone number yet.”

Oikawa prays to all the gods that this is the right way to flirt with someone. It’s been _so_ long, and this whole situation is so _surreal_ that he needs to hang on something, anything that will tell him he’s doing this okay. He can hear Iwa-chan’s laughter all the way from Japan.

“That can easily be changed,” Suga conveys, fishing out his phone and tapping a few times on it. He hands it to Oikawa and waits expectantly until he’s taken it from his hand. “Your number, Oikawa. You’re supposed to put it in there.”

Oikawa glares at Suga, sticking out his tongue.

“I _know_ that. I’m just not sure if I want you to have it. What if you’re a stalker? What if your aim is to _murder_ me? You know the world would suffer the loss of a brilliant mind like mine—“

“Just put the damn number in the phone, Oikawa,” Suga squeaks, urging Oikawa with his hands.

“Such an Italian, all gestures and demands!”

That has Suga groaning, which is _great_ because Oikawa loves driving people mad with his wit and he _adores_ Suga’s different expressions. He wants more of those. I wants all of them.

The waitress comes just as Oikawa is finished saving his number under the signature name “Oikalien”; she puts the cups on the table, along with a receipt which is immediately snatched away by Suga.

“ _Grazie mille,_ ” he says, bowing his head to the girl who blushes and “ _Grazie a voi”_ replies, subtly checking out Suga even as she leaves.

“How lovely,” Oikawa comments coldly, sipping on his hot beverage. “Ordinary people have such a cute way of showing their feelings.”

“She’s a _friend,”_ Suga spats indignantly. “You have _no right_ to insinuate things when you’ve just met me!”

“I didn’t say anything about _you_ , though” Oikawa retorts, smiling mellifluously. He’s getting the hang of this. He _knows_ how to do this.

“I know you were so eager to get my number just seconds before”.

Getting this boy to splutter and blush is far too easy, Oikawa thinks. He may look cool and collected, like he has his whole life together, but he _squirms_ in front of Oikawa, and that is so utterly adorable he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Oikawa can’t figure him out, though. Suga is not a star, not a comet, not a planet. Suga is not a galaxy, because those are far too _simple_. Oikawa can’t figure him out. And he wants more.

“So, Suga-chan. Tell me more about that whole literature thing of yours. What exactly do you study?”

At the question, Suga lights up like a Christmas tree. He takes a long sip before wetting his lips and tilting forward Oikawa.

“My course is a comparative study on ancient Japanese and Greek literature. Have you ever hear of The Iliad?”

Oikawa has, faintly. He remembers a lecture Makki insisted on going to; it was all about a guy named Homer (who apparently wasn’t a guy but a community? Oikawa can’t recall) who wrote two giant poems that marked the whole occidental literary tradition.

He doesn’t remember much about that lecture, besides Iwa-chan’s frowns in every single declination ( _yes_ , he spent time deciphering every single one of them, but he doesn’t need people to remind him of that) and the faint smell of the rain outside.

“Uhm, is it a very long poem? Written, like, a shit ton years ago by some guy who had little to do with his time?”

Suga smirks, and sets the cup on the table.

“Well, the _guy_ was called Homer, and some say he wasn’t even real, and that the whole poem – well, actually the two of them, the Iliad and the Odyssey, have been written in quite some time by collecting all these popular oral stories and… wait, that’s not the point. What I study is the connection between these poems and the ones from the Japanese tradition, and compare them to see what similarities and difference there are. There’s also a whole anthropologic study on it, but I won’t go there because then I’d have to tear my hair apart. Which will happen only when I’m about to graduate, I hope… Wait, what is that look for?”

Oikawa didn’t think he’d notice; listening to Suga blabbering on about his studies with a happy smile and genuine bright eyes has got him all messed up. It must be showing.

“Sorry… say, do you often go into lecture-mode, or is it just because of me?” Oikawa inquires, as he places his half-empty cup on the table as well.

“Oh my, I’m _sorry_ , did I do that? My friends always tell me I’m either an asshole, a mother or a lecturer but I didn’t want to show _that_ side of me just yet. Shit. Sorry!”

Oikawa chuckles, shaking his head and reaching for Suga’s arm.

“Don’t worry. Tell me more.”

Suga stares at the hand on his elbow for a moment, and takes a big breath.

“Well, since you _asked,_ Oikawa, I shall inform you some more. You see, there’s a whole open debate on whether the Iliad in particular has influenced our early literature, because...”

Suga goes on and on talking for what feels like hours, but it’s never boring, or hard, or dull. Every expression on his face matches perfectly the thing he’s talking about, the tone of his voice goes up and down, opening gates to unexplored planets and creating constellations with the sparks that come from his mouth.

He talks of gods, monsters and heroes. He talks about tradition, and the sixteenth book of the Iliad, which apparently got him in tears for nearly two months (“I swear I couldn’t go on after what happened in that damn book. I had to gather all my strength to go on. My friend Daichi was about to set an appointment with a psychologist. Good thing he’s one, I wouldn’t have had to pay…”)

“Am I talking too much?” he asks at some point, an unsure look on his face. He relaxes, thought, when Oikawa “No,” replies easily, “I could listen to you for hours.”

“I’m really not that interesting. This stuff is, though.”

He pauses, looks at his watch (he wears it on his right wrist, because he’s _one of those people_ ) and then he glances up at Oikawa, smiling apologetically.

“And I’d like to tell you more, but it’s actually pretty late, and I need to get going.”

Oikawa sprints up at that, probably sporting a horrified expression.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, have I been keeping you from something? Shit, you should have said that, I was… I’m so sorry, I’ll get going too…”

He makes to grab his jacket, but Suga stops him by pulling his arm (just like Oikawa did before) and has Oikawa looking at him.

“Not at all. I was enjoying myself. However, I have a date I cannot fail to attend. My friends would have my head if I missed their anniversary party. Wait, no. First they’d have my balls, and _then_ my head.”

Oikawa giggles, nodding in Suga’s direction.

“Right. Sorry anyway. I’m a complete stranger, after all…”

“Not at all,” Suga says again, like a mantra. “You are Oikawa Tooru, the astronomer. I’ve got your number.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa conveys, feeling _warm_ and cosy inside. “Yeah, you do.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Oikawa is an idiot, and he’s very good at being one.

“I’m an idiot,” he tells Gabriele when he finally reaches his place (after getting lost no less than six times in the damn neighbourhood). His friend holds the door open with a straight face, and lets him in.

“I’ve known you for six days and I’ve never had a doubt about that, Tooru,” is what he says, trying to hide a snort. He fails. Oikawa feels miserable.

“I’m such an idiot, Gabri-chan, I can’t believe I’m actually like this,” Oikawa whines, dragging his feet through the corridor. "Is there a hole I can cradle into so I don’t have to face pretty boys ever again?”

Gabriele leads him to the sitting room, where another boy is currently watching tv with his feet on the coffee table and buried between the pillows of the sofa.

“Oikawa, this is my roomie Akaashi Keiji. Kei, this is Oikawa Tooru, a self-proclaimed idiot,” Gabriele introduces them to each other with a swift smile, yawning.

Akaashi looks up from the television and gazes at Oikawa. His eyes are blue, just like Neptune, and his hair are pitch black, going in every direction but in a good way, a just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-still-looking-fine-as-fuck way. He’s attractive, there’s nothing else to say. He’s just _purely_ handsome, and Oikawa feels like dying. So much for going out and meeting people.

“Hi, mate,” Akaashi says, with a deep, calm voice that sounds tired and indifferent. He shifts on the couch, making room for Oikawa, and stares at the tv once again.

“Hey,” Gabriele exclaims, plopping down next to Akaashi (who squirms a bit but doesn’t protest), “none of this Japanese bullshit when I’m in the same room as you. English, please. Italian, even better.”

Akaashi snorts and gestures Oikawa to sit.

When he speaks again, he does it in English: “Sit down, and enlighten us on why you’re an idiot, Oikawa-san. I’ve heard a lot about you. Too much, really. Want anything to drink?”

Oikawa smiles bitterly, and sits down as well, putting his legs on Gabriele’s lap. He blatantly ignores the boy’s whines and bends to look at Akaashi from the other end of the sofa.

“No, it’s okay, thanks,” he says, bowing his head slightly.

“God, must you be _so_ polite all the time? Can’t you people just, like, _not bow_ or something?”

Akaashi turns to Gabriele really slowly, with a blank expression on his face. Oikawa smiles, biting back a laugh.

Gabriele must have a death wish.

“Must you be such an idiot all the time, as well?”

Another Japanese would have felt offended by that. Oikawa himself would have (except if it were Iwa-chan saying it).

Gabriele, though, smiles widely and proceeds to leave a wet, sloppy kiss on Akaashi’s cheek.

“He loves me,” he tells Oikawa solemnly, eyes wide and smirk in place.

“I _despise_ you” Akaashi says, wiping his face on Gabriele’s sweatshirt. “Let Oikawa-san speak, you bloody menace.”

Oikawa smiles gratefully at him, and lets himself tilt backward, burying his head in the soft fabric of Gabriele’s sofa.

“I had coffee with him,” he begins dramatically, placing the back of his hand on his eyes.

“And it was wonderful.”

“I bet it was,” Gabriele comments immediately.

“And let me guess. You kissed, and he asked you to marry him because he fell in love with you at first sight and couldn’t bear the thought of being away from—ouch, Keiji, _stop hitting me,_ you caveman!”

“Thank you, Akaashi-chan,” Oikawa remarks, grateful once again for this beautiful and natural balancer, earning a small grunt from Akaashi and an indignant squeal from Gabriele (not that he cares about that).

“We spoke about his studies, and drank this hideous cinnamon spiked coffee that I, for some reasons, found tolerable, and it was _perfect_ , guys. And then I fucked up.”

Akaashi turns off the television and leans towards Oikawa.

“Care to share the evildoing with us, mere mortals?”

“He was aiming for a little suspense, Keiji. He’s like that,” Gabriele chirps, almost singsongingly.

Oikawa thinks he might despise him a bit, too.

“Shut up, jerk. It was going so smoothly, I was honestly so _surprised_ he hadn’t run off yet. But when he had to leave to go to his friends’ anniversary party or something—“

“Is that the excuse young people use to _dump_ others now?” Gabriele wonders out loud, receiving another sonorous smack on the head, courtesy of Oikawa this time.

“When he _had to leave_ ,” he continues, “I asked if he knew where we were because I _clearly_ didn’t. And he laughed. He laughed in my face and told me to go down the street to find the tube station, and then he just kind of… left? I made an idiot out of myself and he _left_. Jesus, I’m so lame.”

Akaashi coughs, probably hiding a laughter, and speaks up.

“Sounds like a jerk to me.”

“Seconded,” Gabriele says moments later, stroking Oikawa’s arm. “Who leaves a poor student in a big, bad city without any indication whatsoever? That’s mean.”

Oikawa shakes his head, sighing heavily.

“You didn’t hear how that question sounded. I was _so_ ridiculous, and he was a total sweetheart the whole time, alright? He even asked for my number.”

A pause. A clock, somewhere in Gabriele’s kitchen, ticks.

“Oh Lord,” Oikawa cries, “he _has my number_.”

Akaashi stands up, huffing. “Right,” he says, “time to put on the kettle.”

“ _What_ is it with you Japanese people and tea, anyway?” Gabriele retorts, spreading on the sofa without taking Tooru’s legs off his body. “You know there’s a much better drink for comforting people. It’s called vodka.”

“How do you deal with this guy?” Oikawa asks Akaashi, in Japanese. The blue-eyed boy cackles from the kitchen.

“I honestly have no idea, mate” he replies, but there’s a smile hiding in his voice.

Gabriele is about to spat a (probably rude) remark, but Oikawa’s ringtone comes first, inundating the small living room with the notes of “FIRE” by a Korean group called BTS.

“ _Lame,_ ” Gabriele whines, faking vomit and putting his fingers in his ears. “Cease this noise pollution at once!”

The ID-caller is Unknown. Oikawa, being an explorer, picks up.

“Hello?”

Silence follows. The only noises are a faint chant of obscenities in the background and the sound of cars.

“ _You need to see the real Rome,”_ a voice says.

And that’s precisely when Oikawa stops breathing. He knows that voice. He has learned to recognize its notes just this afternoon. He’s not sure he will ever _forget_ this voice. He wasn’t sure he’d get to hear it once more, though.

“Sugawara Koushi?” he questions. He barely notices Gabriele falling off the sofa, or Akaashi practically skipping from the kitchen to hear what’s going on ( _so_ out of character of him, really).

“ _The one and only. I’m taking you out on Friday. I want to show you the essence of this city.”_

“On Friday,” Oikawa repeats, glancing desperately at the two boys who watch him with identical pairs of expectant eyes.

“Alright,” he says, not adding anything more.

“ _Alright.”_

Another voice, belonging to a guy probably, suddenly calls for Suga.

“ _Right, I’m coming, Kuroo. Sorry, I need to go. I’ll text you, alright?”_

“Yes,” Oikawa exhales. “Yeah, do text me. It’d only be impolite not to do so.”

Suga, on the other side of the receiver, laughs quietly. Then, he hangs up.

Oikawa raises his head and meets Gabriele’s and Akaashi’s gazes.

“Well?” Gabriele urges, his honey brown eyes open wide and filled with curiosity. Morbid interest is also showing in Akaashi’s Neptune-blue wells, who simply nods and encourages Oikawa to speak.

“He’s taking me out on Friday.”

“Oh Tooru, you _adorable_ idiot, I can’t believe you were pining just seconds ago!” the Italia boy exclaims.

He side-embraces Oikawa, knocking the breath out of him in the process, and holds really tight. Akaashi smiles warmly, pats him on the back and makes his way to the kitchen once again, muttering something that sounds like _vodka, it is_.

Oikawa, head still locked under Gabriele’s arm, feels a smile growing on his lips, like a nuclear explosion of _joy_.

And then, pure panic.

“Shit,” he whispers, struggling to get out of the mortal grip of his course mate. That attracts the two boys’ attention again, causing Gabriele to let go suddenly, and Akaashi to turn around sharply.

Oikawa, hair all mussed up and clothes wrinkled, looks at them helplessly.

“ _Shit._ What am I supposed to wear?”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think about this! I love feedbacks the most.  
> Thank you for reading. <3  
> ps: you can find me on twitter, too! @oikoushi  
> pps: i'm also on tumblr as shiratooruzawa!


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